“We’ve got a name. By tomorrow morning we should have a face.”

She felt her heart start to thud. “A name…?”

“His name is Henrik Baumann.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Baumann hiked around the perimeter of the clearing, satisfied no one was around, that no one could come upon him unexpectedly. From the truck he pulled out the MLink-5000, the satellite telephone that resembled a metal briefcase. He placed it on the roof of the car and unfolded it. The top, which flipped open like a book, was the flat-plate antenna. It was much less conspicuous than the older models whose antennas were large dishes.

Since the transmitter’s beam width was much broader than that of the older models, aiming accuracy was much less crucial. As he adjusted the angle of elevation, he studied the little boxes on the LCD readout that indicated signal strength. When he had maximum signal strength, he turned the thumbscrews on the back panel and removed the handset.

Then he placed a telephone call.

From his years in South African intelligence, he knew the workings of the government of South Africa. He knew that any search for his whereabouts would move in one of two directions. It would either be instigated by South Africa and reach outward, or it would be instigated by another country and be directed toward South Africa.

The first direction-a request coming from South Africa and going to security and law-enforcement services around the world-was by far the more likely. A former member of BOSS had broken out of prison, had likely left the country: the South Africans would request help.

Less likely, but far more worrisome, was the second possibility-that some law-enforcement or intelligence agency had learned something about him and had turned to South Africa for help. This would most certainly indicate a leak in Dyson’s coterie.

When governments deal with other governments, they almost always go through established channels. An official request to the South African government for information on one Henrik Baumann might come through diplomatic or intelligence channels; it might be sent to the attorney general, or directly to the South African police. But no matter where it was pointed, it would be funneled to one place. All prisoner records, including court statements, photographs, and the standard fingerprint record, S.A.P. 69, are stored in the centralized records of the South African Criminal Bureau in Pretoria. The Criminal Bureau, however, was a large bureaucracy. A request for records might be handled by any of a dozen or more people.

But a far smaller staff was employed at the Department of Customs and Excise, Baumann knew, processing and handling passport applications. Any thorough search for information on him would include a request for his original passport application. Years ago, there was just one person, a stout Afrikaner whose name Baumann had long since forgotten, who handled requests for copies of these applications.

The clerk in charge was no doubt a different person by now. But there probably was still just one clerk in charge.

By his second call, he had reached the customs clerk in charge of passport application requests, a pleasant-voiced woman.

“This is Gordon Day from Interpol in Lyons. I’m following up on a request…”

“Sorry,” the clerk said politely when Baumann had stated his business. “We’re not supposed to deal directly with outside agencies-”

“Right,” he said, the jolly British civil servant, “but you see, the thing of it is, the request has already been made, and I need to know whether the documents have been sent, is all, because there seems to be some foul-up on our end here, at headquarters.”

“I haven’t gotten any request from Interpol concerning a passport of that number,” she said.

“Are you quite sure?” Baumann insisted.

“Yes, Mr. Day, I’m quite sure, but if you send me a fax with-”

“Is there another agency the request might have ended up at?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

“Oh, dear. Well, is it possible that our request was filed with another country’s, like the French, maybe, or-”

“No, sir. The only request for that application I’ve received came from the American FBI.”

“Ah,” Baumann said triumphantly. “That makes sense. They put in the request to us, as well. Was the requesting officer a Mr… Mr… I must have it here somewhere…”

“Taylor, sir, from Counterterrorism?”

“Taylor! Right. Well, that certainly clears that up. Thanks so much for your help.”

“Yes, sir, my pleasure.”

Counterterrorism. The FBI. The Americans were on to him. A change in plan was most definitely necessary.

He would not fly to New York. No, that would not do at all. That would be a mistake.

He would fly to Washington.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX